in Victorian times. During normal working hours, any bicycle will beat any car on just about any
journey at all. And Alex wasn’t riding just any bike. He still had his Condor Junior Roadracer,
handbuilt for him in the workshop that had been open for business on the same street in Holborn for
more than fifty years. He’d recently had it upgraded with an integrated brake and gear lever system
fitted to the handlebar, and he only had to flick his thumb to feel the bike click up a gear, the
lightweight titanium sprockets spinning smoothly beneath him.
He caught up with the car just as it turned the corner and joined the rest of the traffic on the King’s
Road. He would just have to hope that Skoda was going to stay in the city, but somehow Alex didn’t
think it likely that he would travel too far. The drug dealer hadn’t chosen Brookland Comprehensive
as a target simply because he’d been there. It had to be somewhere in his general neighborhood—not
too close to home but not too far either.
The lights changed and the white car jerked forward, heading west. Alex pedaled slowly, keeping a
few cars behind, just in case Skoda happened to glance in his mirror. They reached the corner known
as World’s End, and suddenly the road was clear and Alex had to switch gears again and pedal hard
to keep up. The car drove on, through Parson’s Green and down toward Putney. Alex twisted from
one lane to another, cutting in front of a taxi and receiving the blast of a horn as his reward. It was a
warm day, and he could feel his French and history homework dragging down his back. How much
farther were they going? And what would he do when they got there? Alex was beginning to wonder
whether this had been a good idea when the car turned off and he realized they had arrived.
Skoda had pulled into a rough tarmac area, a temporary parking lot next to the River Thames, not far
from Putney Bridge. Alex stayed on the bridge, allowing the traffic to roll past, and watched as the
dealer got out of his car and began to walk. The area was being redeveloped, another block of
prestigious apartments rising up to bruise the London skyline.
Right now the building was no more than an ugly skeleton of steel girders and prefabricated concrete
slabs. It was surrounded by a swarm of men in hard hats. There were bulldozers, cement mixers, and,
towering above them all, a huge, canary yellow crane. A sign read: RIVERVIEW HOUSE. And
below it: ALL VISITORS REPORT TO THE SITE OFFICE.
Alex wondered if Skoda had some sort of business on the site. He seemed to be heading for the
entrance. But then he turned off. Alex watched him, increasingly puzzled.
The building site was wedged in between the bridge and a cluster of modern buildings.
There was a pub, then what looked like a brand-new conference center, and finally a police station
with a parking lot half filled with official cars. But right next to the building site, sticking out into the
river, was a wooden jetty with two cabin cruisers and an old iron barge quietly rusting in the murky
water. Alex hadn’t noticed the jetty at first, but Skoda walked straight onto it, then climbed onto the
barge. He found a door, opened it, and disappeared inside. Was this where he lived? It was already
growing dark, and somehow Alex doubted he was about to set off on a pleasure cruise down the
River Thames.
He got back on his bike and cycled slowly to the end of the bridge, and then down toward the parking
lot. He left the bike and his backpack out of sight and continued on foot, moving more slowly as he
approached the jetty. He wasn’t afraid of being caught. This was a public place, and even if Skoda
did reappear, there would be nothing he could do. But he was curious, just what was the dealer doing